No Peace in Quiet
by Pensez-a-Erik
Summary: It was her first Christmas since Erik died. Yet when Christmas Eve finally arrives, Christine receives a letter that she never realized she needed. 3rd place in NotaGhost3's 2018 holiday one-shot contest!


"There's no peace in quiet

Just footsteps on the stairs

Whispers in the quiet

Remind me you're not there"

There was a cup of hot tea in front of her that she did not wish to drink. Instead, Christine stared out the large window to her right, gazing at the dimmed streetlights. Little flurries flew in the air, small snowflakes that danced before landing on the large mounds of snow that covered the roadways and sidewalks.

France was beautiful in December. It truly was, yet she couldn't bring herself to appreciate the calming appearance outdoors.

Christine's reflection was visible in the window, lit up as the cafe was. She cringed at her appearance- hair pinned up messily, black mourning clothes bringing out the blue in her eyes, dulled by grief. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. It was clear she'd been crying. Hell, the waitress had even laid a hand on her shoulder and asked if she were alright when Christine entered.

Which… she wasn't alright. Not at all. A constant cloud of exhaustion smothered her, and she felt as if every day she aged twenty years more.

"Madame?" The gentle waitress interrupted her thoughts. "We're closing now. I'm sorry, but you must leave."

"Oh, I didn't realize how late it was. I- my apologies." Christine blinked herself awake, reaching into her pocketbook to retrieve the francs needed. Of all that she'd lost in the wake of… him, money had never run short. Christine supposed she was lucky in that respect.

But she'd rather be living on the streets with _him_ back than be wealthy.

It was desperately cold outside, the wind nipping at her uncovered nose. She tugged her red scarf up in vain. The streets were mostly abandoned except for the occasional buggy that rattled by, with most people keeping inside to spend the holiday with their families.

She tugged her coat tighter around her. The streets of Paris felt large and empty, too big for only her to occupy.

She quickened her steps to reach the opera house as soon as possible. Perhaps she would curl up on the couch, find whatever scotch was left behind and pass out to hopefully forget everything.

God… when had she begun drinking regularly? Before, becoming familiar with alcohol was never something she'd ever even dream of doing. She used to be fine simply treating herself to tea, yet in the past few weeks, she'd found herself turning to stronger substances for comfort.

Oh, Erik. She felt terribly lost.

The snow crunched beneath her boots as she hurried to the Rue Scribe entrance of the catacombs, pulling her mittens off her hands to begin tapping the code on the doorway. The passcode was a few notes from a Faust song, in which when rapped on a specific brick would open the chamber.

It was cold, and Christine was in a hurry to get inside to where it was slightly warmer. Yet something lying at her feet made her halt.

It was an envelope.

Leaning against the bricks, it faced her. Clearly unopened, it appeared as if it were set there for _her._ Dumbfounded, Christine stopped, reaching down to pick it up. Who had placed it?

"Hello?" she turned, calling up the street. There was no response. The road remained empty other than her. There weren't even any footprints on the ground.

Spooked and confused, Christine entered the catacombs, choosing to open the envelope once she reached home.

Upon reaching the underground house on the lake, she set the letter on the end table, lighting a fire in the fireplace to warm the chilled room. After hanging up her coat, cape, scarf, and hat, she finally turned to the white envelope.

The paper stuck out like a sore thumb in her parlor. Lifting it and peeling away the wax, she pulled out a letter. Her breath caught in her chest.

 _Dearest Christine,_ was written in red ink on the outside. The handwriting was achingly familiar, and her heart skipped multiple beats. Could it be…?

Carefully she looked to the next line, her hands already beginning to shake.

 _Love of my life. Light of my world. My Angel of Music- my muse. I love you so, so much. Never doubt that._

Christine's throat tightened, and the world around her buzzed until she could focus on nothing but the letter in her hands.

What she would _give_ to hear him say those words again! To whisper them against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her lips; the feel of his warmth and scent as he wrapped her in his embrace. Now, as she read the endearments he used to bestow on her so often, she could almost imagine his voice breathing those same words.

She forced herself to read on.

 _Since you are reading this letter, I am deep beneath the earth by now. With the help of a few connections, I made it so you wouldn't receive this letter until the first Christmas Eve after my death._

 _I do hope that this letter heals, not harms, seeing as I have always had an awful habit of harming you, my dear. It's never something I wish to do. My entire being, my entire existence revolves around your happiness. I know you well, my love, and I'm sure you will still be struggling come December._

It had only been what, one month since he passed? Distantly she wondered how long he had thought he had left to live. More time? Less time?

December had come, and she certainly was struggling. He was pretty on the nose about that- being the most intelligent man that she'd ever known, and ever would know.

 _You were always so empathetic, love. It was one of my favorite things about you. You hold so much love in your heart, and more oft than not it would cause you pain._

 _Now that I have departed, I fear you will be all alone in your pain. Christine, you'll keep your grief to yourself, bottling it up inside until it leads to collapse. Don't shake your head in disagreement, you know it to be true. Reach out to others. Madame Giry. Meg. They will understand, they love you just as I do._

 _I write this late at night, by nothing more than candlelight. I can hear you moving around in the next room, most likely making yourself tea or dinner. I know these last few months-_ my _last few months, have been more taxing on you than they have been on me. And truly, I am sorry. You have gifted me with the best year of my life, and I repay you with illness and tragedy. You deserve so much more than what I could ever give you._

 _Recall our wedding, my dear. I was anxious out of my wits. And you remember what you said to me?_

 _You said 'don't worry, love. It will be fine.'_

Their wedding had been in a small church far on the outskirts of Paris. The pastor had been kind, allowing them their wedding with barely a warning in advance. The man had been understandable surprised when a young woman had appeared in a white dress and a man with an expensive suit and black mask upon his face.

Yet the kind pastor had done his job without any questions.

Erik _had_ been alight with nerves. He'd been jittery as all hell, shuffling from one foot to the other. He'd worn his mask that revealed his lower face and mouth, allowing her to see his jaw tensing as he glanced about the room.

"Are you sure about this?" he'd turned to her when she laid a hand on his arm. "You're fine with being married to _me,_ bound by your soul to a faceless freak for the rest of your days?"

Christine had shaken her head. "You're not a maskless freak, Erik. I _love_ you. I want to be your wife. And you want this too, right?"

He'd visibly swallowed. And nodded.

She broke out into a smile then. "Then don't worry, love. It will be fine."

Everything _had_ been fine. That evening he'd slid a wedding ring onto her finger, and they'd been bonded as husband and wife. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health. They'd shared their first kiss as a married couple in that chapel.

The paper crinkled slightly in her grasp.

 _I urge you to remember those words now. Don't worry anymore. Everything will be fine in the end._

 _I once pretended to be your angel, and now I hope I really shall become one. An angel that will always watch over and protect you. Never forget that._

 _Now, as I must bid you adieu once more, I have nothing but a simple request for you._

 _Earlier in this letter, I mentioned a connection of mine. His name is Nadir Khan, and I do believe you two have quite a bit in common. I suppose one would even call him my friend. Meet him, my dear. He can help you while I cannot. His address is written in a small note at the bottom of the envelope, as well as your gift._

 _Joyeux Noël, my dear. I love you with all of my heart, and always will._

She reached forward to hold the envelope, opening it to pull out the remaining items. There were three objects inside from what she could tell. One was a small scrap of paper she set on the table, yet it was the gift- _his_ gift that finally caused her to break.

The pressed petals of a rose and a black satin ribbon lay in her palm.

Christine hadn't realized she was crying until she held his final present. She barely registered the great gulping sobs that echoed in the room; shaking, howling, heart-wrenching. Cries that filled and shook her entire being, rattling her down to the bone. Her arms curled around her midsection, and she dropped the envelope onto the carpet before her as she curled forward, her forehead resting against the floor. Christine wanted to scream her pain to the clouds above, to sob until all tears were gone from her body and she was nothing left but a breathless ghost. She wanted to leave her dreadful world and soar up and up into the sky to finally feel his arms around her again. To press her tear-streaked face into his shoulder and breath in his scent. To know that everything was going to be _okay,_ that the pain would finally leave and that he would stay. Where an angel wouldn't just watch _over_ her, but _stay_ with her as well.

She wanted to escape to a simpler world where she didn't receive a heart wrenching letter that made her feel as if a wound had simultaneously reopened and healed.

She wanted a world where she wasn't _alone._

Christine wanted Erik. Oh God, she wanted Erik. She wanted him back _so so_ badly. And he was gone far away.

It was almost as if she were a child, sobbing over a lost gift, throwing a tantrum over something that was long out of her control. Decades out of her control.

Gently, she brushed the pressed petals of the rose as another sob racked through her.

There was an ache in her heart that he had left when he'd died. A gaping hole in her soul that felt as if it would never be filled.

His words from the letter came back to her mind suddenly, pausing her tears for a few moments.

Through blurry eyes, she looked up at the little note on the table. _A friend,_ Erik had called the man. She had not known that he'd even had any friends.

Yet the letter promised that Nadir Khan could help her. And even if it was a stretch to reach out to this man… perhaps any company was better than none at all.

She put the rose petals and ribbon in the envelope, along with the letter carefully on the table. The address remained folded in her hand. Pressing her handkerchief to her face, she tugged on her coat, cape, and other materials once more.

She trusted Erik, surely he would not suggest she meet an old acquaintance if not for a good reason.

It appeared as if she were going to make one more trip out that night.

XXxxXX

Erik had begun coughing the week after their wedding. At first he had played it off at nothing, often laughing off her worries as his illness progressed.

It had been late one night; they had been curled up in bed, she tucked in at his side. She always felt the safest in his arms, almost as if they were invulnerable. Invincible.

His body had shook with a series of coughs, waking her from her sleep. His handkerchief was pressed against his mouth, other hand reaching out to the bedpost to steady himself.

"Hey," she had whispered, "Are you alright? Should I get you a glass of water?"

"No- no, I'm fine, I'm fine," he insisted. "I miss-swallowed, that was all. I am fine. Stay here, my Christine."

She had stayed beside him. There was something about the way he spoke 'my Christine' that caused her heart to quicken and her legs to weaken. She'd always been helpless against his endearments.

Over the span of their short marriage, he'd begun coughing more and more. Eventually it became more than simply coughing. Fevers, sneezing, even vomiting at multiple points. Christine had been frightened. Very, very frightened.

"Should I find a doctor?" she asked one night as he was curled over in bed, his face flushed from fever.

"There's nothing a doctor can do for me," he'd rasped. "All you can do is stay here and- comfort me."

In the end he'd been right. No matter how hard she'd tried and how hard he'd fought, he had been correct.

"You can't leave me," she'd whispered against the fabric of his shirt. They were in the living room, Erik on the couch. She knelt at his side, her bare knees digging into the carpet below. "You can't leave me. I need you. I need you, Erik."

A hand raised, thin and frail, to cup her face. His thumb stroked her cheek with infinite tenderness. Cold as his hands were, she relished the contact, turning her head to press a kiss to his palm.

"You are the best and most precious wife in the entire world," was all he'd said.

She had closed her eyes, knowing his words were a lie. She was the worst wife, unable to even keep her husband healthy and alive.

"I love you," she replied. "You're going to get better, and then we're going to go on a great vacation. We can go to Sweden! I've always promised you that we'd visit where I grew up. Doesn't that sound fun?"

"It sounds amazing, my love. I cannot wait." A small smile was on his lips, curling up only slightly at the edges. His smiles had always been subtle, as if he were afraid to fully grin.

She had leaned up to press a kiss to those smiling lips.

Exactly an hour later he exhaled his last breath, and his hand fell away from her face.

Christine's sobs had echoed throughout the entire catacombs.

XXxxXX

Christine pressed a few francs into the palm of the tired carriage driver, thanking him softly as she departed onto the street.

She watched as the buggy drove off, and turned to stare up at the building before her.

27, Rue Laffitte, the small paper read. Second room on the second floor.

The apartment building now loomed directly in front of her, and she found herself wandering down the hallway, inside, until she found the apartment where this _Nadir Khan_ lived.

It all seemed daunting. It had to be about midnight… who was she to be requesting entrance into this strangers home at odd hours of the night? On Christmas Eve, nevertheless. This man was most likely asleep in bed, or spending time with his family, or doing anything other than sitting around and waiting for a grieving widow to arrive.

"He can help you where Erik cannot," she repeated to herself, echoing _his_ words from the letter. Christine had absolutely no clue what that 'help' entailed, but now this was her chance to learn.

Take the chance now, while she had the chance, or regret it forever?

Lifting her hand, she knocked on the door twice, before stepping back.

At first there was no sign of life from the other side of the door, but eventually she heard the shuffling of feet on carpet. The small click of a lock being unlocked.

"Hello?" a heavily accented voice came from the opposite end. The door creaked open a sliver. "Who's there?"

"It's Christine."

A pause. Then, taking a leap, she added: "Christine Devereux."

The door swung open wide, revealing a man with the most bright shade of green eyes she'd ever seen.

"Christine Devereux?" he echoed.

She nodded, hesitantly.

He looked up and down her clothes- she had remained clad in her black mourning dress. A small sound escaped him, a mix between an exhale and a sigh. He held the door open for her.

"Please, madame, come in," he said, still looking as if he were viewing a ghost.

He led her into the parlor, a small and simple room adorned with very little decor. There were two couches on a thick persian carpet, and she careful sat down on the seat closest to the door. Her leg bounced from beneath the skirt- her anxiety was most likely obvious even to him.

"You- you _are_ Nadir Khan, correct?" she looked up at him, simply needing to make sure.

The man still stood by the door, his hand still resting on the doorknob as if he did not know what to do with himself.

"Yes," he confirmed, nodding slightly. "I'll be honest, madame, I never thought I'd get to meet you."

The corners of her lips upturned in a small, sad smile. "Life surprises us all, sometimes."

His tone was melancholic as he responded. "That it does, madame. That it does."

XXxxXX

Christine nursed her hot cup of tea, a small part of her relishing the burning sensation as it touched her tongue.

"So," she looked up at him from her spot on the sette.

He sat on the couch opposite her, his own mug resting untouched in his hands.

"You… knew Erik?"

Nadir nodded.

"In Persia?"

A pause. Hesitation. "Yes. We met in Persia. I used to be the Daroga of Mazandaran there," he sighed, and a hand rose from his teacup to rub at his temples. The poor man seemed as if he had aged beyond his years within those few hours.

"Erik mentioned you briefly when he first told me about his time there. In Persia." she glanced down at her own drink. "He didn't talk about you very often, however, and never told me you lived in France. I just assumed you'd died."

Nadir's thick brows were furrowed. "I admit, it hurts a little to know he'd never thought to introduce you to me."

"I'm sorry."

"No- no, it's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

They both lapsed into silence, Christine closing her eyes in an attempt to stem the tears that threatened to resurface.

"And he… never mentioned me in his letters to you?"

"We didn't correspond very often, not even after I had relocated to Paris," he sighed. "I sent the occasional letter, and maybe a quarter of the time he would reply. Hell- I didn't even know you and him were married until right after your wedding. He sent me a letter then, but that was the last one I received before his death."

Nadir sat there for a few long beats, as if he were studying her. His head tilted.

"Truth be told- and I mean this in no way a slight against you- I imagined you to be much older, madame. You are quite young." Compared to Erik, at least she was.

Christine shrugged, her thumb pressing against the side of the teacup as she considered how to reply.

"Well," she breathed, "That's just how things turn out sometimes. It was out of our power, I guess."

"Indeed." He raised his cup to take a sip- the first she'd seen him take that evening. "I do have one question, though. If Erik had never mentioned who I was before… how did you know to find me?"

Christine met his eyes for a moment before she reached to set down her mug.

Outside it had begun to blizzard. Snowflakes swirled around the empty streets, floating and gathering among the piles visible from her spot up above. Everything was so quiet, much like the silence in the room as Nadir patiently waited for her answer.

"I… got a letter, earlier this evening." Her empty hands picked at the embroidery on her dress absentmindedly. "God knows how he did it, but it was from Erik. All in all, he wished me a merry Christmas, and told me that he'd always watch over me. And then at the end, the last paragraph mentioned you. He... called you his friend."

Nadir blinked at her for a few long moments before rubbing at his eyes. Christine watched him, unsure if she should lean forward to comfort him, or simply continue speaking. When he didn't interrupt, she decided the latter.

"In the letter he had a gift for me, as well as your address on a little sheet of paper," she pulled out the little slip of paper, laying it on the table between them. "I came almost immediately here, monsieur."

Christine was almost unsure if he'd heard the last part of her statement; his palms were still pressed against his head. When he lowered his hands to reveal tear-reddened eyes, she felt a few pangs of sympathy.

On unsteady legs, Nadir Khan stood up. "Please," he said, "Call me Nadir."

She smiled up at him. "Then call me Christine, as well."

Nodding tersely, Nadir swallowed visibly, before tipping his head down slightly.

"Christine," he sighed, "I mentioned before that I did not receive very many letters before Erik's death. I did however receive one right _after_ his death."

"After…?" she echoed, confused. "Like my letter?"

"Sort of. His letter was sent with another, however. My note 'ordered' me not to look inside the second, but instead to deliver it directly to a spot on the side of the Opera Garnier."

"Erik had you send me my letter? That's… interesting."

The Persian nodded. "I had long stopped questioning his odd antics, so I did not think much else of it. But his letter _had_ warned me that I might receive a visitor in the near future. I… suppose he was correct."

Shaking his head, he rubbed at his eyes again with a hand. "Pardon my language, Christine, but the damn bastard plotted this. He had this all planned out." His voice sook, a mix between a laugh and a gasp.

Rubbing at her own quickly-blurring eyes, she laughed softly. "I suppose he did. It doesn't surprise me- he always did have everything figured out and planned."

Nadir handed her his handkerchief. "That he did."

XXxxXX

It was intensely cathartic to speak about Erik with someone else that had known him. That _understood._ Nadir had so many stories to tell that she had never known- so many little insights into the life of her husband that brought laughter and tears to her eyes. She, as well, had her own repertoire of tales to tell Nadir. That night it was as if they both saved each other, bonding through their shared grief.

It wasn't a perfect Christmas eve. However, it was still better than she could have ever imagined.

Christine still ached and yearned for Erik, of course, a fact that she knew would never change for the rest of her life. His heartbeat, his very existence had felt interwoven with hers, and it felt as if it were a blow from which she would never recover at times. Yet Nadir's sudden appearance in her life was quickly beginning to show her that perhaps things would get better.

Perhaps, with time, she would be able to think about red roses and black satin without crying. Maybe one day she would be able to sing again.

The rest of her life would not be easy- far from it. Yet it was still comforting to know she was not completely alone.

And later, as she stood beneath the bright full moon on her way back home, she sent one last prayer up to the stars.

 _Joyeux Noël, Erik. Wherever you may rest._


End file.
